


The Journal of William James Maltravers

by AutisticWriter



Series: Mental Illness Headcanons [39]
Category: Horrible Histories
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Character Death, Dated language, Death, Diary/Journal, Epistolary, First Meetings, Friendship, Gen, Injury, Letters, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Shell Shock, Soldiers, Swearing, Violence, War, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-10 15:39:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 5,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12302253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AutisticWriter/pseuds/AutisticWriter
Summary: Two years ago, all Bill Maltravers wanted was to be better at cricket and his mother to stop calling him Billy. Now, all he wants is to survive another day without being killed.The diary of eighteen year old Private Maltravers, a young solider during the First World War.Or the one where Maltravers and Blenkinsop meet as Privates in the trenches, make friends and help each other cope during the hell that is war.





	1. 27/10/1916

27th October 1916

I am finally here, in Belgium, ready to fight as a real soldier!

I am no longer just ‘Maltravers’, as I was called by the officers at training camp; I can now call myself Private Maltravers, for I am a solider now.

It is not exactly what I expected, being a soldier, I mean. When we were back in Blighty, the men on leave used to tell us that it was hard out here, but worth it. To be quite honest, the only positive about this trip to Belgium is that I have finally left the village, and I never thought that would happen. I had always thought that I would grow up, marry a girl from the village, and settle down, become a farmer, and stay put, forever. How wrong I was!

Well, the only thing now is to wait for my call to fight for my country.


	2. 28/10/1916

28th October 1916

I have a letter! It arrived this morning, but it was written back in August, when I was four months into my six months at training camp. I was so happy when I opened it and saw dear Mother’s handwriting. It has been so long since I last saw her that I did not even mind her calling me ‘Billy’ (she used to call me that when I was young, but I prefer being called Bill these days – although I am also getting used to be being called Maltravers all the time by the generals).

But, without a shadow of a doubt, the best thing about receiving the letter is that I found out that my sister Anne has had her baby! And she has named him after me. It is so strange to think that I am an uncle already, when I only turned eighteen years old a few months ago.

It has really made my day.

I shall place the letter in this journal to keep it safe and reasonably dry:

_6 th August 1916_

_My dearest Billy,_

_I hope that all is well with you. Everyone here is well and happy, although we do miss you terribly._

_I have some truly terrific new to tell you, my son: Anne has given birth to a beautiful baby boy! And she has decided to call him William (although he is Billy to all of us) after his brave soldier of a brother. But the sweetest thing is that Anne and Sophie send little Billy to sleep each night telling him all about his courageous uncle, and you can tell they are so proud of you, as am I._

_But how are things for you, Billy? Do you wish you could come home to your family? No, of course you don’t! I am sure you are having a jolly good adventure out in Belgium._

_We all hope to see you very soon, but, until then, stay safe and remember that you all love you greatly._

_From your loving mother._

_Dear Bill,_

_I really really miss you._

_Mother keeps telling me you’re fine, but I’m not so sure. Please reply to ease my thoughts._

_Anne and Peter send their love._

_Love from Sophie._


	3. 30/10/1916

30th October 1916

There truly is nothing to do in this blasted reserve trench. We are stuck in the same routine that we had back at training camp. That was basically keeping ourselves and our rifles clean, and doing drills for hours at a time. It was extremely tedious them, and is even more so now.

I am so very bored; when I joined up, I thought that I was going to fight for my country, but instead I seem destined to do absolutely nothing. It is just so irritating!


	4. 31/10/1916

 

31st October 1916

I cannot believe how naive I have been.

We were moved up to the front line this morning, and it is truly terrible compared to the reserve trenches. So many people have been killed here that it permanently smells of rotting flesh, and the thought that the Germans are only thirty feet away is making me rather paranoid.

But, anyway, this afternoon all we were doing was lounging around, sleeping, cleaning our rifles or playing cards. I was sleeping; I am always tired now. It was actually pretty much like life in the reserve trenches, so I let my guard down. But then I was able to experience what this war is really about, and I did not like it one bit.

It was very peaceful out across No-Man’s-Land; if you listened carefully you could hear the German’s talking. It was rather strange.

But then, all of a sudden, our peace was shattered. The German’s started shelling us, and the noise of the constant explosions was deafening. And then our men joined in, shelling them back, creating violent explosions and sending debris flying over our heads – a sight that made me feel very lucky that I was wearing my helmet.

I was terrified – I cannot think of a time when I was as scared as I was right then – and was trembling so badly that I actually fell into the man stood next to me. Luckily, he did not get angry with me.

Once the shelling had stopped, and I had calmed down, he shook my hand and introduced himself, “Private Thomas Blenkinsop.”

“Private William Maltravers,” I replied. “Nice to meet you.”

And, just like that, I made my first friend out here in Belgium. That most likely sounded very cliché, by this is only my journal, so I do not actually care.

Blenkinsop (he’s got so used to being called his surname by the army that he asked me to call him that; just the same as me!) is also eighteen years old, but, he is over a head taller than me. His hair is dark brown and he has such a friendly smile. It is quite reassuring to think that, even amongst the chaos, that someone would actually miss me if I bought it.

The shelling has stopped now; I am very glad of that.


	5. 01/11/1916

1st November 1916

I want them to stop!

I am so very itchy; my skin feels like it is on fire, and hurts from me scratching myself so much. I have been feeling like this for several days, but today it is much worse.

Blenkinsop came over and stood by me earlier, watching me scratch. He told me that I have lice in my clothes, along with every other soldier here. It made me feel a little better to know I am not ill, but I still wish the blasted things would leave me alone.

Actually, my new friend has told me an awful lot this morning, when, again, nothing was happening, about what has happened in the last two years of this cruel war. Unlike me (I only joined up because of the Conscription; I did not want to fight, but I also did not want to be labelled a coward if I stayed home), Blenkinsop has been fighting since the very start of the war, having lied about his age. So even though we are the same age, he knows so much more than me; in fact, he is practically a hardened solider.

He has told me many stories, but I think my favourite tale has to be the story of the Christmas Day Truce. I shall write it down, so I will not forget it:

It was a freezing Christmas morning in 1914, but, despite the cold, the men were joyful, for they that all received tins full of cigarettes, tobacco, and messages and photographs from the Royal Family themselves. Nobody really seemed to want to fight that day. That was when they heard the silence coming from the German trenches; there were no bullets or shells being fired; it was totally calm. So they began to wonder if the Germans didn’t to fight as well. Some particularly courageous (“Or idiotic,” added one of the particularly cynical men who was eavesdropping on Blenkinsop’s story) men ventured out into No-Man’s-Land and a few Germans did too! Later that day, almost all men on the front line on both sides were out of their trenches and interacting. They even played a game of football together!

It is a brilliant story, but it is so very difficult to believe that it really happened, what with both sides constantly firing machine guns with the intent of cutting each other to pieces.

I wish that we could have another truce now, one so powerful that it would end this war for good. But even I know that will not be happening anytime soon.


	6. 07/11/1916

7th November 1916

I do not really know how to write this, but I am not in the trenches anymore! I am in the field hospital, miles away from the front line, as safe as you can be in a war ravaged country like Belgium (well, I suppose the Germans could still bomb us with one of their aeroplanes, but I would like to think that even the Hun would spare a building full of invalids).

When I awoke yesterday, I asked a nurse what had happened to me. She did not know the details, but told me that I had arrived, unconscious, at the hospital on the second of November. I was shocked; that meant I had been unconscious for four days!

Also, yesterday I met the doctor, who told me in detail what my injuries were. He said I had had my scalp torn open by something sharp, and I had needed surgery to stitch it back up. He then told me that I must have torn the skin around my left eye sometime before collapsing. That comment certainly explained why I had bandages around my left eye. And when I said I did not remember that happening, he said my short term memory may have been impaired.

However, I think my memory is coming back to me. Earlier today, I started remembering things about what happened. I had recollections of a shell whistling and everyone running away down the trench. And, being the idiot I am, then I turned around to see where Blenkinsop was, but he wasn’t there, and then the shell landed quite far down the empty trench. The force of the explosion threw me backwards, and I hit my head, hard. That is the last thing I remember before waking up in hospital.

It is reassuring to have this memory back, because it has calmed my fears that my brain might be damaged. Because I would obviously not like that to have happened.


	7. 08/11/1916

8th November 1916

I like the field hospital a lot, although I still would rather have been invalided back to Blighty. We get three square meals a day here, and comfortable beds to sleep in. Apart from the fact that we do not have to risk our lives here, I think the best thing is that the hospital is that we are free of the vile vermin that plague us in the trenches. There are no rats that scurry across the floor, and we have been cleaned, which means the lice on our bodies have been drowned. There is no mud that clings to your uniform, and no murky water that rots the duckboards and turns your feet wrinkled and damp, which, of course, causes the dreaded trench foot.

I really do not ever want to go back to the trenches.


	8. 09/11/1916

9th November 1916

I have had a visitor! It was Blenkinsop. He has told me all about what has been happening to the regiment, including the depressing news about who has bought it. His main news was that he and four other men had been on a Trench Raid the night before. When I admitted that I was not sure what one of those was, he explained it to me, and I am going to write the information down, so I do not forget it again:

Trench Raids are attacks on the opposing trench at night. They select a handful of men, who are stripped of their identifying documents, and they have to sneak into the German trench and attack them with short range, primitive weapons, such as maces. The aim is to steal important documents, such as maps, or even a German soldier.

I do hope that I never have to go on one myself – they sound terrifying!


	9. 10/11/1916

10th November 1916

The doctor took my bandages off today. It really is awful; I have a disgusting, red scar around my left eye and across my eyelid. I know that it is terribly ungrateful to complain like this, for I know that the scar is just a fraction of an inch away from my eye, and that I could have been blinded, but I cannot help but thinking about how unattractive the scar makes me look, and how no girls will ever fall in love with me if I look like this. In fact, although the cut on my head, which still has stitches in it, looks much worse and will take a long time to heal, I am much less concerned about it than the scar on my face.

I really can be vain sometimes!


	10. 12/11/1916

12th November 1916 

I am almost ready to leave the hospital; I think it will be the day after tomorrow. The doctor said I will need to come back on the 20th to have my stitches removed; when I asked why I cannot just stay here until them, he said they didn’t have enough beds, and I was well enough to leave tomorrow. I do not agree with him; my head still hurts badly, but I did not dare argue with him.

In the meantime, however, I need something to write about, for I am getting very bored. I know, I shall write about the time I first heard about the war:

It was the summer of 1914; I was sixteen, in an English lesson, and very, very bored. English was not my subject; all I wanted to learn about was history, my favourite and best subject. My teacher, Mr Brown, could tell we were all bored, and he got angry.

“Well,” he said snappily, “as you don’t care about grammar, maybe this will catch your attention.” He paused, looking around the room, and we all stared back at him. “Have you all heard about the war brewing in Europe?”

Some boys gasped at this news, others cheered, and some, myself included, just looked very, very nervous.

“How’s it happened, sir?” Asked Jason Thompson, one of the rough, sporty boys who hated me and I hated back.

“I believe it was when the Arch Duke of Austro-Hungary was shot by a Serbian man in Bosnia.”

Everyone was confused; we did not know anything about other countries, for we were poor folk who lived in a small village in the countryside.

“But how does this affect us, sir?” I asked, raising my hand.

“That is a very good question, Maltravers. And the answer is that various countries around the continent are getting involved in Austro-Hungary and Serbia’s conflict, and now Germany has joined in, and they are threatening to invade Belgium. But, as soon as they do, our brave boys shall send them back!”

We all cheered, but I could help thinking that war did not sound like a good thing, and that I did not want to be a part of it.

Well, that was a pointless thought – look at me now!


	11. 14/11/1916

14th November 1916

I was dismissed from the field hospital this morning, and have met up with my Regiment again. They are at the front line again, worst luck.

Blenkinsop smiled when he saw me, and clapped his hand on my shoulder as he said, “I’ve missed you, Maltravers. Does your head hurt?”

I decided to lie to him, and, smiling, I replied, “Not really.”

He clearly noticed the scar on my face, because Blenkinsop said, “Don’t worry about the scar, old bean. Lots of girls like a man with scars.”

“Really?” I said, smiling genuinely this time.

“Of course they do,” he said. “It makes you look tough.”

Glad he was trying to stop my (rather trivial) worries, I smiled gratefully. “Thank you, Blenkinsop.”

Today has been quiet, and rather peaceful. I have spent most of the time playing cards with Blenkinsop, and, if I ignore the disgusting smell, the sound of the Germans talking, and the dampness soaking through the seat of my trousers, I can almost pretend that I am back in the field hospital. Almost.


	12. 15/11/1916

15th November 1916

It is another quiet day, so Blenkinsop has been telling me more tales of the trenches. I only found one of them really interesting, so that is the only one I will write down. It is the story of the first use of gas:

It was the 22nd April 1915. All of the soldiers were lazing around, when one of them saw the strangest sight: a yellow-green coloured cloud was drifting across No-Man’s-Land towards them. Everyone sudden ran for safety, for they had seen such a strange phenomenon, but they knew it had to be dangerous. It was a chlorine gas cloud, but they did not know that. Soon it reached the trench, slinking into cracks and down peoples’ throats. They choked, suffocating, the gas eroding their lungs and –

At this point in the story, I interrupted to ask, “How come you’re not dead?”

Blenkinsop told me that he was not there, and this was simply a story he had heard, for the attack had happened on the French.

Although the thought of a gas attack on us is terrifying, at least we have gas masks this time.


	13. 16/11/1916

16th November 1916

Blenkinsop has been teaching me trench songs. This one is my favourite:

 _When this lousy war is over, oh how happy I will be,_  
_When I get my civvy clothes on, no more soldiering for me._  
 _No more church parades on Sunday, no more putting in for leave._  
 _I will kiss the Sergeant Major, how I’ll miss him, how I’ll grieve!_


	14. 17/11/1916

17th November 1916

I am making my Christmas present for Blenkinsop. It is a cigarette lighter made out of an old bullet. I hope he likes it; it has taken me long enough to get this far, and I am still nowhere near finishing it.

It has been another boring, quiet day.


	15. 19/11/1916

19th November 1916

I was out on sentry duty last night. There was a bitter wind, which kept me awake. I have heard tales of men who fell asleep on night sentry duty and then were killed by the firing squad, so it was lucky that the wind was there, or the same fate might have befallen me.

We still have had nothing to do all day. I am still working hard on Blenkinsop’s cigarette lighter.


	16. 20/11/1916

20th November 1916

This morning, I went back down to the field hospital to have my stitches removed. It was rather painful, and I still have a sore head now. Luckily, today has been a quiet day.


	17. 21/11/1916

21st November 1916

The Germans have been shelling us all day! I cannot stand the shells. They make the ground shake, my legs wobble and my ears ring. I am not sure if my handwriting is legible any more, for my hand is still shaking badly, but, as I am the only person who reads this, I suppose is does not matter.

I felt so shaky earlier when we were being shelled that I fell over, but, luckily, the effect has worn off now the shells have stopped. Blenkinsop told me that they call what happened to me ‘Shell Shock’.

I certainly hope that I do not get it again.


	18. 25/11/1916

25th November 1916

It is now a month until Christmas! I can remember being young and loving Christmas – the tree was always my favourite thing about it.

I have not written in this journal for a few days, for we have literally done nothing of interest (and I do not find shelling and Shell Shock interesting).

I have almost finished Blenkinsop’s lighter. I wonder if he is making something for me.


	19. 26/11/1916

26th November 1916

It will not stop raining. It started yesterday morning, and since then we have all been drenched. The rain will not soak into the sodden ground anymore, so we are now wading around in ankle deep, freezing cold muddy water. It is disgusting, and smells foul. My feet are permanently wet now, and I am paranoid that I will develop the dreaded trench foot.

The rain is making everyone irritable, especially me; I feel like I will punch the next person who annoys me, I am so irritated. Hopefully it will not be the Sergeant Major, as I am not in the mood to be Court Martialled.


	20. 28/11/1916

28th November 1916

It has now stopped raining, and, instead, the weather has decided to try and freeze us to death. My toes are constantly numb with cold, and I cannot stop shivering; the newspaper Blenkinsop gave me to put up my shirt has not helped me in the slightest.

But at least the mud has frozen, and we now have dry feet.

I have finished Blenkinsop’s cigarette lighter. Now all I have to do is stop it getting broken between now and Christmas day.


	21. 30/11/1916

30th November 1916

We were shelled again this morning. The explosions woke me up. Soon our boys were shelling back, and, once again, the explosions were so loud I could hear nothing else, and the ground vibrated beneath my feet. And, once again, I felt myself trembling, and I fell into Blenkinsop.

However, this time, it was even worse. A hideous sense of dread filled me, my chest tightening until I could barely breathe. My hands shook until I dropped my rifle, and I slumped backwards against the trench wall. My Shell Shock was back.

I hunched up on the freezing ground and tried to breathe, and, luckily, I managed to calm myself down. Blenkinsop looked down at me every time he reloaded his rifle, and tried to reassure me. After a few minutes, I was able to stand up again, but I felt awful. I was nauseous, and I felt slightly like I might black out. Never, in all my life, have I felt so dreadful, not even when I had influenza and nearly died.

I still feel rather ill now, but, hopefully, I should recover soon.


	22. 01/12/1916

1st December 1916

I detest everything about this war with all my might, I really do.

We were gassed by the Germans today. I was the one who raised the alarm. I was just looking through a periscope, for I was on sentry duty again, and saw the yellow-green cloud I have heard so much about.

Soon we were all wearing our gas masks, and standing with our rifles pointed at No-Man’s-Land, waiting. I looked at Blenkinsop through the cloudy eye lenses of my mask, and he patted my shoulder reassuringly, obviously knowing I was scared. As the cloud drifted over the trench, it engulfed us; everything around me was yellow-green tinted, and I could not see any more than a few feet in any direction. It was terrifying, but I knew I was fine as long as I had my mask on.

Just then, through the tinted fog, we saw them, the Germans, running across No-Man’s-Land with their own gas masks on. We started firing at them, knocking them down.

But, as I was about to reload, I suddenly saw Blenkinsop on his knees, his hands gripping the mask around where his throat was. With a feeling of dread, I realised that he was choking; there must have been a leak in his mask. I went to remove my mask, wanting to give it to him, but he shook his head violently, and I didn’t want to go against what he wanted me to do. He pulled off his useless mask and threw it to the floor. Now his head was free he choked loudly, his face red with effort and burns from the gas. He clutched at his throat, his eyes screwed up, swaying as he got closer and closer to passing out.

I dropped to my knees beside him, putting my hands on his shoulders to stabilise him, wishing I could do something to help. And then something Blenkinsop told me came back to me, and I wanted to cry: “I don’t want to be morbid with you, old bean, but if anyone breathes too much of that gas, they’re a gonner. It’s a slow and painful death for them, always.”

Blenkinsop must have been thinking the same thing, because he reached out and pointed at my rifle. I swallowed hard, knowing what I had to do. My hands shaking, I pointed my rifle at him and shot him in the head. He died almost instantly.

So that is what happened, and I know it is all this blasted Army’s fault. They gave my friend a faulty gas mask.

They killed him.


	23. 05/12/1916

5th December 1916

This is the first time I have felt like writing since Blenkinsop bought it.

I feel pathetic for being so upset over Blenkinsop’s death. It hardly makes me look like a solider to be constantly on the verge of tears, does it?

I have written mother a letter telling her how bally awful this war is, but did not tell her about Blenkinsop – it is too painful. I just wanted to tell the truth, to let her know that there is no glory in this blasted war.

Here is the letter:

_To my loving family,_

_I want to write a letter telling you that I am having a grand time in the Army, which is what many of the other chaps write in their letters. But I am not going to do that, and you know that I am an awful liar, so I am not going to even attempt to forge an idea world for you to read about. I am just going to tell you the truth about this dreadful war._

_It is truly awful. We are plagued by rats, and the only way to get rid of the blasted things is to smash them to bits with shovels. We are crawling with lice; they are completely disgusting and get into every hem of our uniforms, making us itch constantly. We all long for the trips to the de-lousing station, where for a few blessed hours we are free from the jaws of the evil creatures. And I must not forget the mud, the thick, oozing, stinking mud that cakes our boots and uniforms and causes the dreaded trench foot._

_It may be winter now, a time of frostbitten toes, trench foot, mud, rain snow and hypothermia – not to forget the lice and the rats – but trust me when I say that this is actually not so bad as what the other chaps say about the summertime. They tell tales of swarms of flies, which come to feast on the bodies of men you lived and fought alongside only a few days earlier. And to top it off, the water that collects inside shell holes turns stagnant in the heat, creating a must disgusting smell. This time of year must be truly awful if the tough, hardened soldiers complain about it!_

_You may be thinking that these discomforts are the worst thing that this war has to throw at us, but you are missing one crucial part of this – the enemy._

_I loathe the fact that we are all taught to hate the men who live a few dozen feet away, for if we took off their uniforms they would be no different to us, just scared young men being forced to perform their patriotic duty. But despite my beliefs, we are forced every morning to fire blindly across No-Man’s-Land in the hope that we will hit a few Germans and feed our bloodlust._

_We are taught to hate them, we are taught to shoot them, we are taught to... kill them. And I detest it so much._

_I am sorry to shatter your patriotism, but I feel I must inform you of the true nature of the Great War – not that there is anything great about it..._

_With love, from your son,_

_Ted_

_P.S. Thank you, Anne, for naming your son after me, but I am not nearly as brave as you think I am._

I know that all letters we send back to England are checked and, if they tell the truth about the war, they get censored. But there is a small chance that Mother will get my letter, and I want to take that chance.


	24. 06/12/1916

6th December 1916

We have just received news that we are going over the top tomorrow. Despite what the Generals like to tell us, I know that no one ever returns when they go over the top.

I have considered deserting, as if they catch me I will get killed anyway, but I have decided against it, mainly because I am shaking so badly that I do not think I can run very fast. I am shaking because I am scared – In fact, I am bally terrified! I started having these strange flashbacks to the last time we were shelled earlier, and I shook so much my knees buckled as I was walking towards the latrines. I assume it was my Shell Shock.

I cannot write for long, but first, I have found out that Blenkinsop left me the Royal Family photographs from his 1914 Christmas tin, which is one small piece of good news. I dreamed about him last night, and woke up with tears freezing on my face. I miss my friend so much – in this horrible place, he meant so much to me. He was the best friend I ever had. And now he is gone.

Goodbye, my journal, for now I am going to write a letter to my family.

If I survive, I shall write again.


	25. Postscript

_6 th December 1916_

_To my loving family,_

_If you are reading these words, I am no longer alive. I have been killed in a British attack on a German Trench. Therefore, I would like to give you all a final message to say goodbye._

_Mother, I hope you leave a happy life free from grief._

_Anne, I hope you become a wonderful mother for little Billy._

_Peter, I hope you never join the army – the glory is a lie._

_Sophie, I hope you achieve all your dreams._

_Billy, I hope you grow up in a world free of war._

_I love you all so much,_

_With my greatest love,_

_William James Maltravers_

_(Billy)_


End file.
